Left of What's Right
by Rykea
Summary: A oneshot concerning Dean's emotional strife, based upon the lyric, 'I would like to linger here in silence. If I choose to would you try to understand.' [Wincest]


**Left of What's Right**  
_By Rykea Night_

It wasn't the words. The words were just syllables, murmurs, empty sound. But the tone...

Dean raked his hands back through his sweat-streaked tresses, tension and spite tightening the muscles in his jaw as he sighed. His tone had been bitter, ruthless, condescending. It was everything but what it was supposed to be back then, back there. And now only worry and self-hatred could fuel that empty slot in his mind, that slot of regret and miscalculation. God, he had been such a fool.

He paced across the tattered motel room carpet, darkened stains of age and long ago spilt liquid scuffing beneath his feet. "Fuck," he sneered, slamming his clenched fist into the wall, leaning against it until his forehead brushed the chipping red paint. "Fucking son of a bitch." Though a part of him knew it wasn't his brother's fault, it wasn't Sammy's mistake. It was his, his own misjudgment, his own fatal flaw. And now they were separated, apart—visible prey.

Dean dialed his number for the hundredth time, clenching his teeth with each unanswered pause, each deafening ring-tone.

"_The caller you have dialed is currently out of the service area or has their phone turn—"_

Rage crippling his arm, he hurled the phone across the room, letting it slam into the opposite wall, chips of paint and plastic splintering into the air. His chest heavy and his neck strained, he collapsed back into an old tattered armchair, his eyes fixated upon the door. Coursing his fingers over the chair's fringed arm, threads having come undone with age and use, he willed the door to open in his misery, willed the sound of knocking to resonate in his ears. But nothing, nothing more than the faraway drone of a passing car and a light evening drizzle.

Thought raped his mind as his eyes flickered from the glaring digital clock to the door, blinding blood red turning from two AM to three to four. The disillusion of sleep tugged at his weary eyes, and yet his guilt continued to seep. _He_ had suggested they split up, suggested they search separately, and then everything went astray. But before that—that single comment of distain and strife... To cover up the truth with words of lies, concealing tones. And why? Why had...

Within unconsciousness his body sensed the second presence, muscles tightening and his eyes flaring open without a single breath. Before their stunning green could focus, he pointed the Browning at the door, his thumb knocking off the safety with familiar ease.

"Dean, wait—"

Mute color forming hazy outlines, he felt himself choke with delusion, letting the gun fall to his side. Relief washed over him, pushing the guilt to the pit of his stomach, and yet the pain still remained. The spoken words were still there.

Sammy pushed the door through behind him, rings of sleeplessness carved around his coffee-colored stare. He had the look of a kicked puppy dog, and it only made Dean's pain swell. "I'm sorry, man. They followed me down through the alleyways, and I couldn't shake them without—"

"Shut up."

His brother's face came alive with a façade of surprise, as if Dean had slapped him senseless. He bit his lip as he narrowed his gaze. "Dean, I..."

"Shut. Up."

As Sammy's face corroded with contemplation and question, Dean simply sighed and fell back into the armchair, relishing in his brother's stunning visual, his calming presence. Their common silence coated his throat, and everything said seemed so distant, so forgotten. Still, thought continued to press against his mind, and all he could wonder was if Sammy would understand the beauty of that silence. For regardless of what happened and what became of them, the beauty of their wordless world would always remain, always exist.

That, and the bitter memories of things that could never be said.

_La fin._

* * *

**Note:** A **Browning** is a brand of firearm. In this context I'm referring to a Browning pistol, more specifically a 9mm. 


End file.
